


Security Somehow

by vamm_goda



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, goalie porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean understands that his main role is to be a mentor and calming presence, it’s just that sometimes Semyon needs an extra reminder before he’ll let him.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Security Somehow

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Established D/s relationship, where all kink negotiations have already occurred. Kinks included are orgasm denial, and teacher dominance. Passing references to resistance as a tool.

It's not like Jean has never lost his temper. He has, sometimes spectacularly, out on the ice where everyone can see him snap his stick against the crease and swear in every language he possesses. He knows bad games, knows slow and sloppy and he knows what it's like to feel like the only person awake on the ice and losing because of it. He knows the frustration that comes with loss, especially those losses where he was the only one who showed up and he can hardly be blamed for most of it. It's horrible to see a number on the other side of the score board, but when your side is empty it's not exactly fair to play Blame the Goalie.

It took years and a natural disposition towards it, but he's mostly learned to leave it on the ice, where it belongs. He doesn't carry it home because it doesn't belong there, it's not healthy. Some people would call it an easy going nature or something and that's partially right, but also he's a hockey player with a hockey player's ego and he's had to learn a little bit of it as he goes. He's learned to leave fault and blame where they belong, which is inside his head, not out in the air where it can poison a locker room with doubt and slow and _not enough_. 

When he'd signed to Colorado he'd known Semyon would be there. He'd known the younger goalie in passing, had admired his adaptation of the butterfly that sometimes looked ridiculous but worked for him anyway. He'd looked forward to playing with him, had looked forward to providing that seasoned presence that younger goalies so often needed and craved. More so than other positions, that much was certain. The media adored calling him the calming presence, the mature influence, and by and large he enjoyed doing it.

The Vancouver game pretty much sucks. It was a hard loss where the team had been half unconscious, Jean had taken the net late in the game and that left Semyon to stalk the locker room and blame himself for far too long. It's the sort of game he kinda hates even being a part of and when they finally, _finally_ slink off the ice in more or less one piece Semyon is sulky and unresponsive, lapsing back into that place where he pretends he understands less of what's being said than he actually does. Just so he doesn't have to talk to anyone more than common courtesy requires.

Jean sighs, hand pressed to his forehead where the beginning of a headache is starting behind his eyes, and he follows Semyon back to the hotel in silence.

"It really wasn't your fault." Jean feels the need to say it even though he also knows Semyon will take it as a lie, one he doesn't want to hear. He will give him that _look_ from under his eyebrow like he thinks he's lost his mind and it's a little distasteful.

Jean'll never understand how Semyon can manage that look when he's stripped out naked on the mattress, thighs pinned between Jean's knees, but he does.

He really, really hates that look. A lot.

"I mean it." He squeezes Semyon's chin, fingers digging into the bone, raising his head so he has to look up, meet his eyes. "Listen to me. It wasn't. You are not the only player out there."

Sometimes he wonders if Semyon has as hard a time understanding his accent as he pretends, or if he's just being contrary. His accent is barely worth commenting on anymore, so probably Semyon's just being a shit. After all, it had taken him almost twenty minutes of pulled punches, scratches against his arms and a few missing buttons that he'll have a good time explaining when he gets home just to get Semyon where he is now, the younger goalie whimpering and desperate for the fight.

His suspicion is confirmed a few minutes later when Semyon seems to get sick of the bruising pressure of Jean's fingers. "Lost my stick," he finally answers, and the set of his lips is hard, tight with irritation and feeling. They've had this conversation at the rink, had it with Sacco and the other guys and will probably be having it _ad nauseum_ until someone gets it inside their skull that sometimes shit happens no matter how much you're prepared for it. 

Semyon's face is set in a thin edged line as he glares, daring Jean to disagree. He's being deliberately defiant; Jean sighs, presses a finger against those drawn tight lips.

Semyon opens his mouth for him when it's clear Jean's not going to give up, that he's not going to tolerate his little fit. Jean strokes around in Semyon's mouth for a few moments, finger slipping along the smooth skin inside his cheek, watching it distend a little bit. He'll never come to terms with how this looks, Semyon red flushed and lean, sprawled against the motel coverlet, the way his eyelids flutter for a moment before he submits, begins wetting Jean's fingers, sucking and sloppy with saliva. "It happens," he murmurs absently. In the rush of a game anything can happen, including little slipups like losing your stick. Like Elliot playing stickless and useless because he'd passed it back to Semyon to use in the crush, even though the puck slipped through only seconds later. "You weren't the first to lose their stick in a pileup. Not even the first in that _game_." He's a little disgusted.

Semyon nips at his finger, and his eyes are hard. It's not much more than a graze of teeth but it's enough. Jean sighs, leans back on his heels and stares down. "Semyon . . ."

"Not good enough," he rasps, rolling his hips against the older man's weight that's pinning him down. His lips are wet.

"No." It's frustrating beyond words, like dealing with a child except this child is perfectly capable of being reasoned with, he's just being difficult to punish himself. Jean settles in for the long haul, leaning back against Semyon, letting the younger goalie's cock ride the curve of his ass through his slacks for a moment. "No, today it was not anywhere near good enough."

Something relaxes in his eyes at that and his mouth slips open, allowing Jean to press his finger back in. His tongue curls over the digit and Jean watches, finger sliding leisurely through his lips, wet and smooth.

"But it was not good enough for the whole team, not just you." He clears his throat, another finger added into Semyon's mouth to stretch his lips apart. The younger man moans, tongue working over him in demonstration as Jean thrusts shallowly, testing to see how much he's willing to take. There's something hypnotic in watching his fingers slip in and out of Semyon's mouth, wet and slick while Semyon slurps and sucks at them. He's still got his crazy intense glare going, and all Jean wants is to see his eyes slip shut.

Jean leans over him, feeling the ripple as Semyon's hips thrust blindly against the pressure that's no longer there. He growls, and the anger is right there, totally opaque — that dark thing he's carrying around inside himself, embarrassment and disappointment and a wine dark bruise pressed into his ego.

"You didn't even see that one coming." Semyon's hair tickles as Jean presses his nose into his temple, nuzzling at him. "You knew it was there but everyone was in your way, instead of letting you do your job. Elliot's stick didn't do you any damn good even after you got it. _He should never have given it to you in the first place_."

Semyon makes a frustrated, angry sound. It's halfway between a moan and a growl and Jean stills him, his fingers resting idly on Semyon's tongue, held there with the tightness of his lips. He feels him gag against the pressure, but the low sound that follows keeps him from letting up.

Sometimes he wonders if he's doomed to this role, the calm and constant presence alongside a lot of young fire and vinegar, but no. Semyon is different from others for a lot of reasons. Not least is that the boy is genuinely talented. Jean enjoys him, enjoys seeing that spark that thrills him as he watches it develop and grow into skill with each day. He has sons where he gets to witness the same thing; it's a glorious feeling.

He'd rather leave than be a backup. Semyon's no different. But to be this, a veteran who competes, who watches the younger generation and has the front row seat? It's pretty fantastic, even when Semyon's being difficult.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Semyon."

It takes him a moment; he quite clearly doesn't want to let Jean go. He can see that desire warring with his need to impress Jean, to do what he says without question.

Finally Semyon shakes his head, releasing him. "Was embarrassment, Jean. I fail. Pull me for you, and you not let in." His voice is that cool anger, different from the one that made him throw his stick after the game, stalk off with a tension in his spine that looked too much like _need_ to be ignored. This is all collected and cool, drawn to snapping point and held barely in control.

He's halfway to angry at Jean, but there's little he can do about that.

"Yeah, sure." It's not true, but Jean needs to let him say it before it goes toxic. He's not liking the edge in Semyon's eyes, the challenge there.

He understands Semyon's relationship with Neuvirth was . . . complex. Two young bucks with equal age and drive under the same roof, there were bound to be pissing contests. He's been there before, Anaheim is a sharp memory for him and Semyon has had less than a blink to dull it out. It makes absolute sense for Semyon to be on edge like a tomcat but Jean . . . is not Neuvirth. 

"You're being stubborn," he sighs, raising himself on elbows and knees above Semyon.

He doesn't even have the grace to look sheepish, and that rough thing is still in his eyes as Jean leans up, working his tie free from his own throat. "Sometimes I feel you do this to annoy me," he rumbles, sliding the silk between his fingers, pondering it.

After a moment he leans forward, drops it over the edge of the bed. He doesn't miss the frustrated sound Semyon tries and fails to hold down, and it makes a corner of his lip twitch up, up into a sneer.

"Semyon." It comes out as a purr; he loves how it feels, so elegant it might as well be French. "Shhhhhhh."

He stills, instantly and without question. It's a rare treat, and Jean enjoys it while it lasts.

"Good." His finger, no longer wet but still a bit cool, traces a path along his cheek, over the high ridge of cheekbone down to his jaw, feeling the sharp jump of tension as he swallows down his feelings. "Semyon, you let in goals. You were pulled. This is true. But." And here his finger presses to Semyon's lips, shushing him before he can start protesting. He smoothes a finger over his forehead to stop his eyebrow from drawing down in a scowl. "You are not the only person on a team. You're only a part of it, not the whole thing. When it collapses it is not only on your shoulders."

That sharp edge inside his eyes starts softening, dulling away from the razor's edge. "Even Patrick has been pulled, and you are young. You just need focus."

Semyon shudders at that, at the way Jean pronounces ‘Patrick' with his accent thick. There's a hero worship there that Jean can never match, but Patrick is not here, and he is. Semyon has this _need_ , and Patrick has never been much of a mentor.

He'd first really noticed it on the Father's and Mentor's trip, the one where Semyon had curled up and slept on the flight, had sat with Wilson's brother at the table and when Jean had asked he'd explained in his halting English that no, his parents were coming to Colorado later, his father was just shy, was bad at English, wouldn't be comfortable on this trip. He'd known then that Semyon needed him more than he'd realized to just _be there_ , be a calming presence when he needed one. He'd known he was a mentor, there to aid his promising rise while proving that he had managed to stave off his own inevitable decline but then there was something _else_.

It had been after the trip that Semyon looked at him like that, had the look that made him shudder a little in his skin when he realized this time was different. 

Semyon needed him for _that_ , too.

It had taken Semyon nearly two weeks to break down and finally ask, with his face buried in Jean's jeans, nuzzling at him through the denim and whining high in his throat.

He doesn't need memories of that right now, sloppy and so unbelievably enthusiastic. "You need to focus," he repeats, as though Semyon could miss anything that he's saying.

"Focus," Semyon agrees, voice thick and catching in his throat. Jean smiles at that, leaning forward to nip at his lip until Semyon gasps and opens to him, tongue stroking out to meet him halfway and then tempting Jean in. 

He licks into his mouth for just a moment, just long enough to catch a taste of Semyon before he pulls back, savoring it on his tongue.

Semyon whines again, twisting and reaching, but Jean just shakes his head, licks slowly and leisurely over his own lips until Semyon stills. It's like a lesson in patience and an appreciation for just enough, or something. It's a tease, but it's also everything Semyon needs to know, but he still protests.

"Could Neuvirth do this for you?" he asks, not expecting a response. It's not really curiosity that prompts him to ask, more just to do something with the silence. He doesn't expect an answer. Semyon is more quiet, more solitary, more _goalie_ than Ovechkin or Semin, but he's still their countryman, still knows how to keep things behind his teeth if he doesn't want it known.

"Misha," he begins, then shakes his head, searching for words. "Misha is not kind, like you."

Jean's eyebrows go up, and he examines Semyon slowly. He has surprises under there, under that disconcerting, dark gaze.

"No, I suppose not," he manages with neutrality after a moment of silence. 

That they had been lovers was something he'd suspected just from watching Semyon. The better he'd known him the clearer it had become, but he'd never asked for any information about their relationship. Truth be told he'd never really _wanted_ to know. He'd been in the league long enough to appreciate the friends and flames that he had while he had them and then let them go when the time came. It was never an easy task but it gets easier the longer he keeps signing his name to the insanity that sometimes passes for a life in the NHL.

"Semyon," he says, and then falls silent as he waits for what he needs to hear. 

"Be kind, Jean." Semyon stretches his hands above his head, drawing his body into long, sharp edged lines. His ribs press against the muscles of his torso, hipbones arching up and cradling his erection. 

Jean swallows, stokes a finger down the ridges of his ribcage, pressing in deep to the spaces in between them. Semyon twists his wrists to grab opposing forearms without being prompted. Soft kisses get interspersed with bites as Jean travels down his torso, working him up to a tense line before pulling away.

Jean watches him carefully. "What did you do wrong?"

He lets out a heavy breath, eyes at the ceiling. He does not whine. "Did not track puck. It buried, I lose track. Look up, not down where you do."

Jean's teeth bare open on a snarl. They are not the same person, have come together too late in life to develop the same style even through proximity and the kid _knows_ that. He recognizes that it's provocation; Semyon is still never less than transparent. He arches himself, begging for the bite that Jean won't give him. Jean has never believed in positive reinforcement for negative behavior. 

Semyon is not him, and he's not here to make him be. He's not here to do anything but make him be Semyon, head high and using that glorious height the way he does, naturally. "No, Semyon."

"Not fast enough. I move so slow, Jean. It go past, not fast to stop it . . ."

He waits until Semyon stops talking, hisses out a rough "No," and leans forward, licks at him with the flat of his tongue. He hears Semyon's voice catch on his own breath, but all the younger goalie does is spread his legs for Jean, hips tilting up in silent invitation, plea. He tastes salty and ready, precome thick on the tip and beginning to spill as Jean slurps it away with pursed lips before sealing his mouth around the crown. An edge of teeth discourages any further attempts at thrusting beyond that initial, desperate jerk. 

The sharp pain of his fingers digging into a bruise from one of the many shots he didn't miss makes Semyon hiss, breath coming out on a moan, eyelashes fluttering.

Jean works him, cheeks hollow as he blows him, fist taking up what he can't risk swallowing down, slurping at Semyon in that way he knows the younger man likes, just close to the edge of too much but careful not to tip it.

He could so easily lose himself in this, the flavor, how heavy he is between his lips, but he has to pay attention. He has to listen to every word and sound as though they are pucks, as though the moment is Game 7. He can hear, _feel_ , Semyon losing himself but it's all without a proper resolution. 

It won't do. He needs Semyon fully present, he needs focus. "Semyon."

He fights his eyes open, fuzzy with need. Jean licks his lips and waits.

"Jean," he says, finally. His body is trembling; Jean keeps his hands and body away from him, cat and mouse. In Washington, Semyon learned to be far too rushed. Be the best, and be it _right now_ or there will never be another chance. Here he has to learn something different.

His lips trace the outside curve of Semyon's ear, breath tickling the shell. "Patience. There's time enough for everything."

" _Jean_."

But, no. Semyon is too close to lying for Jean to trust him to ask for what he needs, instead of what he wants. 

"Relax." It's an easy enough command, but Semyon's arms tremble as he lowers them back down to his sides, body thrumming. 

"Now wait."

That one's harder, by a lot. Jean can see, smell, almost taste how close Semyon is; this is a trial for him.

He makes a face, a little bit impudent, but on a slow exhale he relaxes for real. Muscles unknot and smooth out, going softer under his skin. His dick curls towards his belly, still wet from Jean's saliva.

Jean isn't unaware that he's still in his clothes; his slacks are itching across his thighs, hypersensitive skin protesting every stitch. 

" _Please_?" Semyon's staring mindlessly at the ceiling, fighting the impatient twitch in his calves, and Jean smoothes his hands up them, kneading at the muscle. 

"What did you do wrong, Semyon?" He leans down, licks Semyon into his mouth again and draws him down as deep as he can with the angle. 

He can see Semyon struggling with the simple task of talking, made harder by English as their shared language, by the constant _not enough_ that is all he's planning on giving him for the moment.

"I don't _know_." He kicks at him with his heel and Jean laughs around him, sucking softly at the tip. Semyon's leaking hard now, coating his mouth. He can taste him all the way to the back of his throat, can feel how hard Semyon is fighting to stay still, do what Jean asks and not what he so badly wants to do, trusting that it'll ease him somehow.

He can see Semyon thinking, though. Struggling with patience, with persistence, with concentration because Jean asked him something that, to him, is deadly serious. Jean opens his throat for him then, encouraging Semyon to thrust with a light tap on his hip. He can see muscles shaking under his skin as he does, slow and almost fearful, cock nudging the back of Jean's throat as his fingers clench and unclench. It's almost too much, and he's hard pressed to say for whom.

"I try," Semyon admits, Jean can see how intently Semyon's watching as he slips deeper into his mouth, as Jean relaxes and lets him go as far as he wants. There's sweat on Semyon's temples and he's just staring, just shaking as Jean feels him nudge the back of his mouth, cock leaking heavy down his throat. It's a struggle, with how touchy his digestion can be. But Semyon tries so hard, is such a good kid, and so Jean rewards him with a short, sharp swallow that has Semyon struggling to not cry out, and he's close. He can see the tension in every part of Semyon's body as he pulls back, jacking him hard and fast, words coming out in a raspy staccato in punctuation to each milking pull.

"Stop. Doubting. That. You. Can. Do. It."

Jean can be very kind, when he needs to be.

Semyon shudders, holds on for a breath, two, and then spills over his fist, wet and hot and shooting hard over Jean's fingers. It's a messy affair, and Jean chuckles quietly in the back of his throat as he works him through it, base to tip and leaning forward to lick him up, catching every bit. When he's clean Jean leans forward to bite at his hipbone until Semyon is shaking and pleading with him to "Stop, _please_ , Jean."

He lets go of him, kneeling up to rest his weight back on his heels, hand wiping off on the comforter. A line of bruises shaped like Jean's teeth traces the sharp curve of Semyon's hipbone, bright against the flush of his skin as he pants his way down from it under Jean's vigilant gaze. They'll fade by tomorrow but right now they're sharp and beautiful.

"I doubt." It's the first time he's ever said it, but it's as important to hear as it is for him to say.

"You do," he agrees quietly. "Too much. You let in one, you start doubting. Semyon, nothing is going to be a shutout at all times; life is not that way."

Semyon rolls to his front, graceful in that way goalies can be, _have_ to be, slithers forward and mouths wetly over Jean's cock, teasing at his slacks with his tongue. "Don't doubt you."

His fingers tangle gently in the curls just behind his ears, beginning to form due to the damp sweat. "You should."

"Don't." Semyon's teasing him through his slacks, like he wants to see if he can make him leak out, can taste him through the expensive material of his suit. Semyon kicks up his legs behind him a bit, just another form of teasing. He sucks lightly at where Jean is pressing against his zipper, trying to take in the whole of his cock before tilting his head up to whisper " _Please_?" like a benediction.

As though Jean doesn't want it every bit as much. 

He fights back the chuckle that threatens to come out and frighten Semyon away like a starter's pistol. Instead Jean just gently nudges his head aside, fingers the spit stained fabric of his pants and then works them open, rising up to push them down and over his hips before settling back into a kneel.

Semyon's making little whining sounds, deep in the back of his throat where he's probably not even aware of them, hips moving almost imperceptively and _God_ , Jean envies him his stamina sometimes. 

He'll never really get over how shy Semyon still seems. How lightly he presses his hands against Jean's thighs to begin with, as though not sure if he's allowed. How he takes a deep breath that's half necessary and half indulgent as he presses his nose to the slight softness of Jean's belly, nuzzling against him and just _breathing_ for several long seconds before rolling his eyes up, watching Jean through his eyelashes.

Jean's fingers tangle in that strange hair of his, not blonde or dark but something in the middle, holding him still. He's a little fascinated by his hair, a little enamored in the same way he can't help but be interested in the younger man's moods, the quick slides in emotion that have him grinning or cracking his stick without warning.

Jean will never claim he doesn't have his moments, but they're never quite the fits that Semyon manages, the incandescent rages. He's just not built for the gamut of emotions that send Semyon hurtling down the little alleyways that Jean has to coax him back from.

His thumb strokes over the high curve of his cheekbone and Semyon whimpers at that, tilts his head up with lips parted and pleads with his body.

All it takes is the lightest pressure imaginable on the back of his head and Semyon moans, eyes falling closed as he collapses forward, licking up the length of his cock, mouthing at his balls. It's wet and messy, not much skill but an enthusiasm that he can appreciate. Semyon gives himself over to it, easy and smooth, neck going loose as he quietly invites Jean to fuck into his mouth.

It only takes a few experimental thrusts before Semyon gets impatient, arm across Jean's hips as he holds him down so he can take him in deeper, until Jean can feel himself slipping down the back of his throat. He can feel every breathless little moan Semyon is fighting to control, never reaching the air but impossible to miss like this, when Jean's so deep that he can't hide anything from him. Jean thrusts, feels Semyon gag against the force of it.

Semyon groans, once, his shoulders falling away from his neck as looseness slips down his spine, body going slack and easy and finally, _finally_. It's what Jean needs, what he needed to see, to watch Semyon let it go, let the loss and the critics and fucking Kiszla shrug off of his shoulders like a too large coat. Semyon comes back to that place that is purely himself, a little shy, a little nervous, but _Semyon_ in that way where the defiance and anger and fits are not.

He comes, finally, watching Semyon relax further as he spills over his tongue, as his eyelashes tremble, a low moan mixing with the spasm of his throat as he swallows. When he finally lets Jean slip out of his mouth he sways a little, falls limply with his cheek pressed against the crease of Jean's thigh, body draping over his lap in a sleepy slump of goalie.

Jean lets him stay like that for several minutes as he catches his breath, as he watches the red flush ease out of his body and until he can feel Semyon starting to doze. As much as he adores Semyon like this, half conscious and fucked out, his knees will not thank him if he doesn't pull out of his kneel very soon. He is no longer young, and as much as it's his saving grace with Semyon it's his biggest fear on the ice.

It only takes a few moments for Semyon to undress him properly, throwing his shirt and his pants (probably ruined, mostly ruined) halfway across the room before he forces Jean down, draping himself over the older man like a heavy Russian blanket. Jean's not much for cuddling in that way where he's hot and just wants to sleep, but Semyon is remarkably easy to adapt to. He wonders if that says more for the younger man, or for him.

Jean's fingers find their way to his spine, rubbing and discovering nothing except boneless acceptance.

"You don't fail when you're not perfect," he murmurs, and Semyon makes a sleepy sound against his throat, not fighting him over that any longer. 

He presses his lips to Semyon's sideburns, speaking warmly into his ear. "But when you get your next shutout, I'll swallow for you."

He doesn't miss the little shudder in Semyon's body as he says that, and when he leans in for a kiss Jean meets him, reveling in the ease present in Semyon. For however long it lasts this time.

"Not if?" Semyon teases, and Jean listens but doesn't detect anything to make him worry for him right then.

"When," he repeats, and Semyon sighs happily into his mouth before dozing off.

Jean stays up, later than he probably should, hand on Semyon's bare shoulder to make sure the tension doesn't return.


End file.
